Maria Tutolla was sixty years old. She had been in the service of the countess for forty of those sixty years, having accompanied the countess on her return to court following Stephano’s birth. The countess treated Maria and all her servants well. She insisted that everyone in her personal staff learn to read and write and she employed a tutor to teach them. Her servants were wellpaid; their living quarters were comfortable. Contented servants do not betray their masters. This said, the countess never permitted the slightest hint of familiarity from any of her servants. Though Maria had attended the countess for forty years, she still went in awe of her mistress.

Maria went to the kitchen, retrieved Benoit, and led him through the palace’s “servant” passages—dark, narrow, hidden hallways that led to the various dining rooms and salons of the palace’s inhabitants and guests. The myriad passages were intended for the use of the palace’s household staff, who were expected to appear the instant the mistress’ bell rang as though they had materialized out of thin air and to disappear in the same manner. Servants were not the only people who made use of these passages, however. Noble lovers found them convenient when slipping out of one bedroom and into another. The passages were often quite crowded during the night.

A plain wooden door led from the dark hallway used by the servants into the countess’ wardrobe. Maria opened the door with a key and a touch on a magical sigil entwined around the lock. She led Benoit into a large closet smelling of perfume, rosewood, and cedar. Maria lit a filigree lamp that stood on one of the innumerable chests containing overskirts and underskirts, cloaks and dressing gowns, negligees, petticoats, stockings, and shawls. Dainty and elegant shoes stood in a neat and orderly row along one wall. Maria pointed to a chair and indicated in a whisper that Benoit was to have a seat. The old retainer was well-accustomed to these proceedings and he settled himself comfortably. Maria passed through another door that led into the countess’ bedchamber and went to find her mistress.

The countess was in her library sorting through a stack of letters, dispatches, and reports from her agents, separating them into three piles: those of no importance which she would give to the viscount to answer, those which required further reading, and those which demanded her immediate attention.

Occasionally, the countess left off her sorting to look with fondness at a young girl of fifteen seated cross-legged on the floor, much to the detriment of her voluminous blue silk skirt and white lace petticoat that spilled around her in layers of folds and frills. The girl rested her elbows on the floor with the easy elasticity of youth. Her chin in her hands, she was studying a large and colorful map of the world of Aeronne. The girl’s rich chestnut hair had begun the day beautifully curled and coifed by her maids, but a romp in the hall with her spaniel had brought the curls tumbling around her face. The spaniel, a small version of the breed, with long ears and big brown melting eyes, was named Bandit, because he was fond of stealing petit fours. The dog now lay curled up asleep on the hem of the girl’s blue dress.

Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Louisa Sophia, known as Sophia, was the third child and only daughter of King Alaric and Queen Annmarie. The king’s two sons, both in their twenties, were now serving in the military. The king was pleased to have produced two male heirs to the throne and thus began and ended the extent of his interest in them. He had shipped them off to seminary school when they were little. After that, they had attended University and then gone into the military. The elder, Prince Alaric II, was now Admiral of the Royal Navy’s fleet in the north. The younger, Alessandro, was captain of his own airship. Neither was exceptional, though the elder had a bad reputation among the sailors for being something of a martinet.

Sophia, the unexpected child, the late child, was the child the king adored. Alaric doted on her, gave her everything she wanted and much that she didn’t. The queen, her mother, a vain and vapid woman, cared nothing for the girl herself, but only for the wealthy and prestigious match she would make for her daughter. With this end in mind, the queen was always trying to improve her daughter’s looks. Her Majesty primped, curled, and fussed over Sophia’s hair, rouged her cheeks and painted her lips, and laced her into corsets in an effort to plump up her small breasts.

Sophia was required to take dancing lessons and etiquette lessons. She learned to paint and to do fancy embroidery. She was not taught to read or to write for these were skills considered by her illiterate mother to be of no importance to a woman. The queen scolded Sophia when she caught her wasting time with a book, telling her daughter that men did not want clever wives.

Between the king and queen, they might have utterly ruined their daughter. Sophia’s naturally sweet nature, a passion for music, an extraordinary talent as a magical crafter, and the countess’ tutelage saved the princess from turning out to be a spoiled and empty-headed porcelain doll.

Early in life, Sophia had developed an attachment to the Countess de Marjolaine. No one in court could understand the attraction. The cold, cunning, devious countess and the sensitive, shy Sophia seemed an unlikely match. Their relationship had begun the day when the countess entered her music room to find the little girl of five teaching herself to play the pianoforte. The countess had recognized the child’s talent and had given her lessons. Discovering that Sophia could neither read nor write, the countess had expanded those lessons to include these skills.

The countess did not relax her cold, dispassionate demeanor around the girl, never exhibited any affection toward her. On the contrary, the countess was often a stern and difficult taskmaster. Sophia knew the value of what she was learning and enjoyed her studies. She came to love the countess, though she was wise enough to keep her affection a secret. Sophia had learned at an early age that her mother, the queen, hated the Countess de Marjolaine, though it would be many more years before Sophia would come to understand the jealousy that prompted this hatred. All Sophia knew was that when she was with the countess, she was free to be Sophia, not Papa’s “pet” or Mama’s “darling.”

As for the countess, she found that teaching the girl brought her a deep satisfaction she had never before experienced. She felt something akin to happiness when Sophia was with her, a feeling she had once thought she would never know again. The countess would not admit her affection for the girl. She told herself it was her duty to see to it that a princess of Rosia should be an educated and well-informed woman. The child would certainly not learn anything from her mother, who had all the intellect of an eggplant, or her father, a man of low cunning, but no particular intelligence.

The countess was attempting to concentrate on sorting her correspondence, but her gaze often left the letters and reports to fix upon Sophia, admiring her delicate beauty and wondering irritably, not for the first time, how the queen could ever refer to her daughter as “homely and plain.”

Sophia felt the countess’ eyes upon her and lifted her head to smile at her. Sophia’s face—minus the rouge, which she invariably rubbed off when she was out of her mother’s sight—was sweet and winsome and pale, too pale; the pallor of illness, not of fashion.

Sophia had long suffered from severe headaches. The headaches had been mild when she was young, but they were growing more frequent and more severe. The king had brought in physicians and healers from around the world to treat her. She had been examined by the best, but no one could find a cause for her ailment. Sophia did not have poor eyesight. Her vision was perfect. She had never suffered a head injury. She did not exhibit symptoms of a brain disease; no seizures, no bleeding from the nose or ears.

The physicians and healers had tried numerous remedies, everything from bleeding to leeches to potions that made her throw up. None helped. When the attacks came, her screams could be heard in distant halls and corridors. The pain was so bad the servants often had to lash her arms and feet to her bedposts to keep her from thrashing about and hurting herself.

Both parents suffered almost as much as Sophia; the king because he truly cared about his daughter and the queen because she did not know how she was ever going to find a husband for her afflicted child.

“I am glad you are feeling better today, Your Highness,” the countess said with her customary cool politeness, as she continued to glance through her correspondence. “I heard you were ill last night. Was the pain very bad this time?”

Sophia flushed, pleased that the countess was taking an interest in her. She spoke somberly, yet rapidly, as though glad to talk about it. “The pain was horrible. It felt like someone had stabbed a hot, burning knife into my skull. When it comes, I can’t think about anything except the pain and trying to make it stop. Mama wanted me to take that bitter medicine the latest physician gave me, but I hate the way it makes me feel, as though I’m wrapped in a thick woolly blanket, and, anyway, medicine doesn’t help. I know the pain is still there, beneath the blanket, and that makes it worse. I drank the medicine to please Mama, but I spit it out after she left the room.”

Sophia started to say something, then bit her lip and fell silent.

“Yes, Your Highness, what it is?” prompted the countess.

“The medicine makes me sleep, but it doesn’t stop the bad dreams. I think sometimes the dreams are worse than the pain.”

The countess stopped sorting to look with concern at her young friend.

“Was it the same dream, Your Highness?”

“Yes, my lady. I am in a cave lit by torches. The cave is cold. I can see my breath and I’m not wearing anything except my shift. Something is chasing me and I’m running away and the cold air makes my chest hurt. I stop because I can’t breathe and hide behind a boulder, but I keep hearing the booming footsteps coming after me. I can sense its hunger. It wants me. I start running again, and the footsteps keep coming: boom, boom, boom.”

Sophia’s voice dropped. “What is most horrible is that it knows my name. It calls out to me, and when it does, I wake up.”

Her brow furrowed. “Even when I’m awake, I can hear the footsteps sometimes: boom, boom, boom. I can even feel them coming up through the floor.”

The countess was troubled. Sophia had told her about the dream before. The dream was always the same, with little variation, as if the girl were describing something real, something that had actually happened to her. Cecile was wondering whether or not to mention this to the king, thinking it might be a new symptom, when her thoughts were interrupted by her servant, Maria, coming to whisper that Benoit was waiting in the wardrobe and that he appeared agitated.

The countess rose languidly with a rustle of silk, her skirts falling in graceful folds around her.

“I must leave you for a moment, Your Highness. While I am gone, I want you to locate Travia and Estara and the island of Braffa on your map.”

“I already know where they are, my lady,” said Sophia, shyly proud. She pointed out the two small continents on the map.

“Then be ready to discuss the deteriorating political situation between these two nations and how it relates to Braffa and to Rosia when I return,” said the countess.

“Yes, my lady,” said Sophia.

She picked up the spaniel and held him poised over the map.

“Now, Bandit, you must find Braffa . . .”

The countess, not expecting formal visitations, was dressed for comfort in a voluminous and exquisite white cambric chemise. Maria fetched a green moiré dressing gown, which the countess put on over the chemise, then entered her wardrobe.

Benoit rose respectfully and made an attempt to bow, staggered, and nearly fell. The countess ordered Maria to fetch brandywine. Benoit drank it, and some color returned to his wrinkled cheeks.

“Please, sit down,” said the countess.

She herself remained standing, an indication that Benoit should not expect to linger.

“You’ve come about Stephano.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Benoit, seating himself.

“The last I heard my son and his ‘Cadre’ were planning to travel to Westfirth.”

“They are on their way there now, my lady,” said Benoit. “They were somewhat delayed.”

He went on to tell her about the challenge in the park, how Stephano and Rodrigo had gone to the duel, how both had been certain Rodrigo would be killed, but that Stephano had hoped to be able to find a way out of it and had ordered the Cloud Hopper to be ready to sail, how Benoit, fearing the worst, had gone to the houseboat to await the dire news.

“I do not know what happened at the duel, my lady,” said Benoit. “Master Stephano was not at leisure to tell me, what with the men shooting at us. Did I mention to your ladyship that I shot one of the assassins?”

“Twice,” said the countess coolly.

She listened with her usual calm languor, evincing no emotion. “My son was wounded, you said.”

“Yes, my lady. Shot in the shoulder,” said Benoit, adding with a certain pride, “He was shot up worse than that during the war. He’ll survive this one. The Trundler woman, Miri, is an herbalist like most of her kind. She will see to it that he pulls through.”

The countess did not evince much interest and shifted to another topic. “Tell me more about this man with the gun with the rifled bore.”

“Monsieur Rodrigo called him ‘Sir Richard Piefer.’ According to the master, he laid claim to be a Freyan nobleman. He spoke with a Freyan accent.”

“Can you describe this Piefer?”

“The master would be able to do so. I regret to say that I only saw him from a distance, my lady, and he was trying to kill me at the time.”

The countess’ lips twitched slightly. “Is that all you have to report, Benoit?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you know if Monsieur Rodrigo has been apprised of the death of his father?”

“Is his lordship dead, my lady?” Benoit asked, astonished.

“I fear so, Benoit. The ambassador was gunned down as he was leaving the office of the Estaran Minister of the Exchequer. The Estarans have arrested a Travian revolutionary, who happened—most conveniently—to be in the vicinity. His Majesty King Alaric has sent a strongly worded letter expressing his outrage at the death of his ambassador and demanding a full investigation.”

“I see,” said Benoit. The old man’s eyes moistened. “Monsieur Rodrigo will be most affected by this tragic news. I will write to him immediately.”

“You may also write to Monsieur Rodrigo that he should avoid returning home. He is wanted for the murder of young Valazquez. I was wondering what this ridiculous charge was all about. Now I know. The matter will be resolved, but the negotiations may take some time. I will send you word when it is safe for Monsieur Rodrigo to return.”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, my lady.”

Benoit finished off the brandywine, set the snifter on the table, and rose to his feet. The countess summoned Maria, who came to escort Benoit back through the servants’ passage. As the two were about to leave, the countess stopped them.

“Benoit, you said you have some means of communicating with my son? You know where he is lodging while in Westfirth?”

Benoit looked wary. “I might, my lady.”

“Relax, Benoit. I will not demand that you tell me. But I would appreciate knowing when you hear from him.”

“I will, my lady,” said Benoit, bowing once again, then exiting the closet in company with Maria.

Left alone, the countess blew out the lamp and stood in the darkness for long moments, twisting the ring on her finger, before leaving the wardrobe and going to her sitting room. Summoning her valet-de-chambre, Dargent, the countess told him to dispatch one of her agents to find out information regarding the mysterious Sir Richard Piefer.

Dargent left swiftly upon his errand, and the countess returned to the library. Sophia tried to rise as the countess entered, but the princess was hampered in this effort by the spaniel, which had once more planted himself on the hem of her skirt and refused to budge.

“Bandit, you are a bad dog,” said Sophia, scolding him by kissing him on the top of his head.

The countess languidly resumed her seat. “I am sorry I was absent so long, Your Highness. Now, tell me about the situation in Braffa.”

Sophia shooed away the spaniel, rose to her feet, and came over to stand before the countess to recite her lesson.

“Estara and Travia both claim the island nation of Braffa because of its valuable resource known as the Blood of God, which is a form of the Breath that has been transformed into a liquid and can be used to power airships. The grand bishop favors the claim of Estara over Braffa because the Church has more influence in that country. The king, my father, says that we have stronger ties to Travia and he favors their claim.”

“What about the city-state of Braffa?”

“The Braffan council wants to refuse both claims and remain independent.”

Sophia went on to describe how a city-state differed from a monarchy. As she was talking, the countess happened to glance down at the letter she had been about to read when she had been obliged to leave to speak to Benoit. The letter was from her principal agent in Freya. A name in the letter caught her attention. A chill came over the countess. She longed to read the letter, but she did not want to hurt Sophia’s feelings by dismissing her. Too often the girl had been told to “run along and play.”

“And what about our longtime enemy, Freya?” the countess asked. “Which side do they support and what role does the Blood of God and the Freyan Navy play in this dispute?”

Sophia’s eyes widened in dismay at the question. She bit her lip. Her cheeks flushed.

“The Freyan Navy? I’m not certain, my lady . . .”

“We talked about the Freyan Navy during our last lesson,” said the countess, and she added with a slight smile, “Perhaps some cakes and hot chocolate would help your thought process.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure they would!” Sophia cried, laughing and clapping her hands.

The countess rang a small silver bell and Maria appeared. The countess gave her order. Maria returned bearing a tray on which gold-rimmed plates of the finest porcelain bore small cakes decorated with sugared violets, bonbons, and spiced nuts. The tantalizing smell of coffee mingled with the aroma of hot chocolate.

“May I be hostess, my lady?” Sophia asked eagerly. “Mama never lets me pour. She fears I will spill on my gown.”

The countess said she would be honored if the princess would serve her. Sophia was delighted. She took her duties as hostess quite seriously, her first task being to remove Bandit from the chair on which he had jumped with the intent of helping himself to cake. Sophia laughingly asked him which he wanted and made him choose by holding his small nose over each cake. Once Bandit had made his decision, which he did by licking a cake before Sophia could stop him, the princess hovered over the cake tray, selecting the very best delicacies for the countess and arranging them attractively on the plate. After that, Sophia had to make a decision on which cakes she wanted. All this took a considerable amount of time.

While Sophia was thus happily engaged, the countess was at liberty to read her letter, which was written in code, made to appear as nothing more than two ladies exchanging the latest gossip in case the missive should be intercepted.

“Honoria” was her code name for Sir Henry Wallace.

The countess allowed the letter to slip from her hands. She sat staring at a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess on the desk. She did not see the shepherdess, she did not see the room around her, she did not hear Sophia’s gentle voice.

“My lady, are you ill?”

The countess blinked and hurriedly left the dark streets and cul-de-sacs in which her mind was wandering. She had the impression this was the third time Sophia had spoken. The countess put her hand to her temple and gave a wan smile.

“I am sorry, Your Highness, but I fear that I am not feeling quite well.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” asked Sophia in alarm, setting down the cup of chocolate she had been holding. “Can I fetch your smelling salts? Some wine?”

“If you could ring for Maria, Your Highness,” said the countess faintly. “I fear we will have to postpone our lesson for the day. Besides, Her Majesty the Queen will be wondering where you are. I would not have her angry at me.”

Sophia rang the silver bell. “I hope you feel better, my lady,” she said anxiously. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

“I will be fine, Your Highness,” said the countess. “It is but a sudden indisposition.”

Sophia nodded, her eyes soft with concern. She gathered up Bandit and, with a fond look, left the countess’ chambers. When the countess could no longer hear the sound of the girl’s rustling petticoats, she turned to Maria.

“Find Dargent,” the countess said. “The matter is urgent.”

Maria obeyed with alacrity. When she was gone, the countess picked up the letter and, lighting a candle on her desk, held the paper to the flame. Once the letter had caught fire, the countess dropped the burning paper onto a plate and waited until it was consumed, then ground up the ashes with a coffee spoon and dumped them into the silver coffeepot.

Dargent entered her room. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”

“I must speak with Stephano’s retainer, Benoit. He was here a short while ago. He may still be in the servants’ hall. If not, go to my son’s home and bring Benoit back here immediately. It is of the greatest importance that I communicate with him.”

Dargent bowed and departed.

The countess rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands and twisting the little ring.

He ran to the door and raised his hand to knock, then he froze on the door stoop. He had no need to knock. The door was open, ajar. Dargent had been to Stephano’s house many times, and he knew Benoit would not be so careless as to leave the entrance unlocked. Dargent drew his pistol. Cocking the hammer, he gave the door a shove.

He entered slowly and cautiously. He looked behind the door, saw no one there.

“Benoit?” he called.

No answer.

Dargent went to the kitchen, where he knew Benoit liked to reside, and found a scene of destruction. Cabinet doors gaped wide, their contents strewn all over the floor. A marble bust of King Alaric lay smashed on the floor. Sacks of flour had been slit open and dumped out. Barrels were split apart and chairs upended.

Dargent hastened through the kitchen to look out the rear door, but found no one there. He returned through the kitchen and went across the hall to Benoit’s room. The bed had been overturned, clothes pulled out of the wardrobe. Still holding the pistol, Dargent made his way stealthily up the stairs. He was fairly certain the searchers had completed their work and were gone, but he was not taking any chances.

The searchers had been thorough; he had to give them credit for that. They had taken the paintings from the wall to look behind them. They had broken into locked chests, removed papers and letters from the bureau. They had even gone through all the books, taking them down from the shelves, flipping through the leaves, and throwing them down on the floor when they were finished.

Now certain that he was alone, Dargent lowered his pistol and released the hammer. He wondered what the searchers had been looking for, wondered if they had found it.

Shaking his head, he called out again, “Benoit! Are you here? It’s Dargent! The countess sent me!”

There was always a chance the old man might be hiding in a closet, but, again, no answer. Dargent had not truly expected one. He went back into the kitchen and knelt down to examine the splatters he’d seen on the floor. He dipped his fingers in them.

Blood. Fresh blood.

Dargent sighed deeply. He guessed that the old man had returned from the palace to catch the searchers in the act. They had beaten him, then had either kidnapped him to see what he knew or they’d taken away the corpse. Leaving the house, Dargent told his carriage driver not to spare his whip.

“Thank you for trying,” she said to Dargent. “You may go now.”

When he was gone and she was alone, the countess sank down in her chair. She tried to think what to do, how to warn Stephano that he was about to unwittingly cross swords with Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster, assassin, a man she considered the most dangerous man in all the world.

The countess had agents in Westfirth. She could alert them, tell them to find Stephano. She ruled that out. Sir Henry had his own agents in Westfirth and his agents knew her agents, just as her agents knew his. In using any agent to warn Stephano to keep away from Sir Henry, she might inadvertently lead Sir Henry right to him.

Yet, if she did not warn Stephano . . .

Night was falling. The servants came to light the candles. The countess sent them away. She preferred to sit alone in the darkness, her head resting on her hand. She would have to apprise His Majesty of the situation regarding Sir Henry Wallace or at least some part of the situation, the part she chose to tell. Alaric would be upset, but she knew how to handle him. He was not the problem that concerned her, deeply concerned her.

Closing her eyes, the countess brought Stephano’s face to mind; the face so like his father’s that her heart constricted with pain every time her son smiled.

“Julian, my love, my own dear love,” Cecile de Marjolaine whispered softly, “Be with our boy!”